


The Landlocked Adventures of the Depressed Tuna Detective

by SincerelyChaos



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad fish puns, Crack, Depressed Tunalock, Fish in Love, Graphic Threats of Turning a Tuna into a Fish Stick, M/M, No Actual Fish Smut, Pining, Requited Love, Sharing a Bed, The Author Regrets Everything, Unrequited Love, tunalock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is just like any other consulting detective, if you disregard the fact that he's also a tuna.</p><p>Being a fish on dry land is never easy, no matter how superior your intellect is. But feeling blue (well, Sherlock is always blue; it's part of being a tuna, but metaphorically speaking) because your friend and colleague is very unlikely to get hooked on a fish is even harder.</p><p>And when you get caught in Moriarty's Net, being a lovesick tuna is not easy at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Landlocked Adventures of the Depressed Tuna Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yourdykeinshiningarmor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/gifts).



> Yes. This happened.
> 
> I apologize to all the tunas in the world who will likely find all these (sometimes grotesque) fish puns very disturbing.
> 
> This happened because I was overtired, had a fever and people kept giving me fish puns. The people at the Antidiogenes should take at least part of this blame, because really; providing me with those puns when I was feverish was never a good idea...
> 
> And who egged me on the most? Well, the story's dedicated to that person. And, Shining also made some lovely inspirational art to this story; 
> 
> http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/post/118050700641/something-fishy-from-the-landlocked-adventures-of
> 
> Very unbetad.

It was an odd feeling, really, to have someone standing up for you.

It wasn’t as if Sherlock couldn’t do it himself; he did actually have a backbone, no matter what Anderson had implied (but then Anderson’s knowledge about zoology left more than a few things to wish for), but hearing John verbally assault Donovan was like whale song to Sherlock. It was brilliant, and Sherlock thought of very few things as ‘brilliant’.

Donovan had made her usual disgusted faces when he’d entered the crime scene, and her usual remarks. “There’s something fishy about him, you know. One day, we’ll all stand around a body that’s been decomposed in a portapotty, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who smells the worst.”. Sherlock was used to it all, and quickly deduced her vaginal infection as a nice equilibrium. It wasn’t until he had his fins on the victim, deducing that the aunt had used almonds in the loaf of bread that the victim ate for breakfast, that the real problem started.

John stood by the door with Donovan and a few others from the met, and at Sherlock’s deduction about nut content in carbohydrate breakfast food, he smiled and said his silent “brilliant!”. So far, everything was right in the world. And it continued to be right for about five seconds, until Donovan leaned a bit closer to John (hateful!) and gave him a disdainful look before she began to speak in her sharp, loud voice.

“And what are you really doing here, Watson? You keep hanging around that freak, giving him compliments and looking like you’d like to devour him. I bet you 100 quid that he’s like a cold fish in bed, but perhaps you’re one of those sick people who like that kind of thing?”

Sherlock had stilled in his movements, only his gills moving as he took a few shallow breaths and listened for John’s response. When no response came, he felt his fins wilt and closed his eyes for a second to regain his composure. He decided to place the whole incident in his queue for deletion, and swallowed some air before he finished his examination of the bread glutton on the floor in front of him.

 

* * *

 

 

It was later that day, when the tuna detective and his doctor had returned to their flat at Baker Street, that Sherlock realised that the feeling of unease from Donovan’s words at the crime scene still hadn’t left him. Usually, Sherlock was able to delete insults and disgusted looks in a matter of minutes, but there had been something about what happened today that made such deletion seemingly impossible. Sherlock lets a sigh out and heads straight for the bathroom, because the last thing he needs right now is John nagging him about keeping himself moist.

Sherlock gets in the tub before it’s even half full, and can feel his body relax as the water reaches his gills and he finally can breathe in his biologically predispositioned way. He always scolds John for bickering about how Sherlock needs his time in the water, but being in the water is one of those things he won’t ever admit to actually needing, since it’s just one more of those things that makes him different. He’s a brilliant detective, but he won’t get half the credit or respect that he deserves, just because of the fact that everybody’s so preoccupied with the fact that he happens to also be a tuna. A land-living tuna, as he is always careful to pointing out. He knows that it will always be like this; the jokes, the looks, the doubt in people’s eyes. All the ‘oh, you’re just like a fish on dry land, aren’t you?’ and the ‘are you fishing for information here?’. Therefore he’s found an attitude that helps him; he treats people the same way they treat him. They treat him bad on the grounds of him being a fish, and therefore there’s no reason not to treat others the same way (but more cleverly done, mind you) on the grounds of them being stupid. John was the first person who really didn’t seem to care that Sherlock was a tuna, instead John seemed instantly impressed with Sherlock’s deductions and his brilliance. It wasn’t like John avoided the subject of Sherlock’s fishiness, no, he seemed perfectly comfortable with nagging Sherlock about taking long soaks in the tub to keep his scales in good shape and using his gills instead of exhausting himself by only breathing air, which was a rather tiresome process no matter how much a accustomed to life on land you were. Also, John seemed to dislike how much loose scales were littering the sofa when Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to keep moisturized, so that might be one more reason for this particular subject of nagging.

No, John was obviously not bothered by sharing his flat with a scarf wearing fish. Neither was he uncomfortable with assisting Sherlock in his cases, while most people found the thought of assisting a tuna (no matter how superior in intellect) unbearable. He was very clear on the fact that he was also Sherlock’s friend, the whole business with the Meerkat in Baskerville had made that clear. Sherlock had never been so afraid in his life, and he might have said some things to John that could be considered slightly hurtful, but John had insisted on that they were friends. The Meerkat had been the most unsettling case since the Moriarty case, because while Sherlock was no fan of cats in general, they couldn’t harm him in any substantial way, due to being so much smaller. The Meerkat, on the other hand, could have eaten Sherlock in just a few bites, if it hadn’t just been a hallucination. Sherlock doubted that he would ever had said those things to John if he hadn’t been so scared, because except for when he fell into a dark mood (which was happening more frequently these past weeks) he didn’t doubt John’s loyalty or honest friendship.

There was only one problem with that friendship, and that was that it was only a friendship. Sherlock was very well aware that affection was not something that helped brainwork, neither was is necessary for his Work or essential for living. Therefore, he ought to abstain from it. He’d held on to that thought for weeks, since he first noticed his… chemical defects in regard to his colleague, flatmate and friend. He’d managed to keep those feelings at a distance, but somehow Donovan’s words earlier today had made all his defences crash, and he could feel the black mood wash over him, minute for minute, increasing in intensity.

Because she was right. Perhaps for the first time in her life, Sally Donovan had a point. John would not like to share his bed with a fish. And though Sherlock was fairly certain that the term ‘cold fish’ was a metaphor for being unenthusiatic or limp in bed, he was also well aware of the fact that no matter how enthusiastic he was or how much he would flop around in bed, he was not someone who his friend would ever have a romantic interest for. It was just that he hadn’t had it spelled out so definitely before, and John had never needed to be embarrassed over being perceived as a possible fishfucker before. Now that he had, there was a good chance that he’d start feeling more and more unease with being seen with Sherlock, and sooner or later, he’d move out, and Sherlock would once again be alone.

Sherlock sighed, shifted his fins in the water, let his gills be filled with it and closed his eyes. This was not going to get better. No, this was only getting worse by the minute.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, but I need to do this now, otherwise your body will be bothering you for days,” John said with a firm voice, as he pushed Sherlock into the restroom in the end of the corridor.

Sherlock had been working a triple murder for three days now, and had barely slept, and keeping himself moist had not been a priority. Now, his colleague searched his bag and quickly fetched the blue spray bottle that he sometimes carried with him for occasions like this. Sherlock hated the bottle, and he hated the fact that John kept dragging it along. He did, however, not hate when John grabbed his fin to keep him still enough so that he could untie Sherlock’s scarf and put it aside before he began to spray Sherlock with efficient movements. Sherlock muttered and flapped, but John just held on tighter on his fins, keeping him in place as the humidity spread like a balm over the tuna’s dry and flaky scales.

“John, stop it, we don’t have time for your veterinary games!”

“This is not a game, Sherlock, it’s your health, remember? You need that health if you want to work more cases, alright? Now shut your mouths, open your gills and be still! And breathe, your gills won’t get misted if you keep them closed,” John demanded.

“Breathing’s boring,” Sherlock muttered.

Reluctantly, he then complied, and when the water hit his gills, he felt how much he’d overcompensated by breathing air these three days. It was blissful, the feeling of water in his respiratory system, but that was something he’d never admit to. Still, John seemed to sense that Sherlock found some form of enjoyment in it, because he kept spraying longer than he usually did. When all of Sherlock’s scales was soaked and the water was in puddles on the floor, John set the spray bottle down and got a few tissues and began to pat Sherlock with them, so he wouldn’t drip on the furniture in Lestrade’s office. John was very well aware of how embarrassing Sherlock found that, so he was always careful to make sure that he was humid, but not dripping.

“You don’t need to do that, John, I can dry myself,” he protested out of habit.

“Yeah, that’s the problem, you dry yourself too much, there’s no moisture left in your scales once you dried yourself off. That’s why I do it, and the fact that I do it is the only reason you even got your scales left. The way you keep ignoring your body is self-destructive. You have such colorful and shiny scales when you keep them moist, I just wish you cared about that half as much as you care about your hair.”

In that moment, Sherlock was very happy that tunas are incapable of blushing. John thought him colorful and shiny? Perhaps it was indeed time to take better care of his scales. He’d heard of a new product that might increase the shine of his… No. No, he should not think like that. There was absolutely no point in even thinking about it. Even if Mrs. Hudson had said something silly about how John would soon take the bait if Sherlock only showed some interest, Sherlock knew that it was never going to happen.

He shaked his head (which meant his whole body flopped, since he didn’t have a neck to separate his body from his head, no matter how many scarves he used to cover up that fact) and tried to focus on the case. It was very hard, though, when John was carefully patting his whole body and his hands were… Oh.

“I’m just saying, you can’t just keep ignoring your ‘transport’s’ need for water, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

 

The triple murder turned out to be more than a triple murder. It turned out to be yet another one of Moriarty’s games, and once again, John and Sherlock found themselves in mortal danger.

“You’ve been trying to dismantle my net, Sherlock. And you know what, I don’t like when people try to do that. I do, however find it strangely fascinating when a fish tries to break a net. You get it? A fish net?”

Moriarty’s manic laugh echoed in the abandoned fish stick factory. He held a gun to John’s head, and the mixture of the smell of dead fish (literally dead fish), Moriarty’s insane gaze and the notion of John being just one impulse from a maniac away from death was nauseating. Sherlock gulped involuntarily and felt his gills open autonomously.

“Oh, you don’t like that, do you? You don’t like to be reminded of the fact that I could catch you in my net, because you know what? I’m not a spider. I am a fisher. And a very, very good one. And you’re in my net, Sherlock. You see? I got your little dog here, right in front of my friend, the gun. And I’ve never heard of a dog following a fish before, but you’ve managed to find yourself a devoted little doggy, haven’t you?”

Moriarty’s voice pitched as he almost shouted out the last part. He seemed to take a breath, then he continued.

“You know what I do with the fish I catch in my net? Oh, I don’t let it suffocate in the air, no, that won’t work on a fish like you. I will boil you alive, Sherlock. Then, when I’ve boiled you, I will fillet you with my best fillet knife, carve you up carefully while your lapdog here watches me. Then I’ll crumb you, oh, the finest crumbs for the posh tuna detective, only the finest. And I’ll bake you in my oven, and when I take you out, your friend here will feel how good I made you smell. His mouth will water unconsciously, because he might not like it, but he will crave to take a bite. I happen to be a real master chief, you see. And I’ll serve you on a plate, with chips… and mayo.”

Sherlock could see how Moriarty’s last words seemed to make John boil with rage. He was still not moving, but Sherlock could see how John’s face went red with fury at the images Moriarty presented.

“I got you on the hook now, don’t I? Oh, yes. Because you know what’s interesting about both animals and humans? They eat when they’re hungry. And the doctor here will soon be very, very hungry. And there will only be one thing in the room I’ll lock him in. And that will be his beloved Sherlock, looking all delicious and smelling wonderful, all crispy and fried in breadcrumbs. Oh, he will not want to eat his friend, of course not. But eventually, Sherlock, he will eat, because that’s what people do. They eat! And he’ll hate himself with every tasty bite he takes, knowing that he’s consuming you, and not in the way you want him to do, no, he’ll consume you and chew you, feeling your flesh as he takes yet another bite. The pieces of you will blend with the chips and the mayo, and soon, his detective will be dissolved by his own stomach acid. And we all know how that ends, don’t we?”

Moriarty was so intensely engaged in his disturbingly visual description of his plans that he didn’t notice how Sherlock had come closer and closer, slowly dragging on his tail fin. John, however, was the alert soldier he’d spent years of his life becoming, and hadn’t let his rage blind him to the degree that he missed Sherlock’s maneuver. Their eyes met, and in silent understanding they simultaneously went to action.

First, Sherlock threw himself to the floor, flopping his whole body so that the tail fin hit Moriarty’s legs with a vicious flap. Instantly, John did a side-motion and knocked the gun out of Moriarty’s hand, but not quick enough, Moriarty managed to pull the trigger. The shoot echoed in the fish stick factory, and for a second, Sherlock thought that his life was over. Not that he’d been shot, no, much worse, that John had been. But then he realised that John was still standing, still struggling to get Moriarty’s arm behind his back and get the man to the factory floor. John. John was unharmed.

A few feet away, a large container with breadcrumbs were slowly leaking it’s content from a bullet hole. Sherlock’s gills closed as the panic left his body, and he got up and admired John’s combat skills as his friend held Moriarty in a firm grip to the floor with way more force than was necessary, as Sherlock got his phone out and called the Met.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock?”

It was John’s voice, coming from outside Sherlock’s door. Sherlock flipped up from his waterbed and felt his heart do a similar motion.

“Sherlock, can I come in?”

John didn’t wait for a reply, but opened the door. In a matter of seconds, he was beside Sherlock on the edge of the waterbed, fidgeting with his hands and looking tired.

“It’s just, well, you know I have nightmares, I know you do, you play all kinds of horn instruments for me when I can’t sleep after a nightmare. It’s just that, hm, what happened today… What Moriarty said about what he was going to do with you, I can’t… Can I just stay in here tonight? I won’t be able to relax if I don’t know that you’re okay.”

Sherlock made an attempt at an indifferent nod, but he felt how his whole body became involved in the movement, and before he knew it, his tail fin was flapping eagerly against the floor. He felt his gills open up, like they sometimes did when he thought about… Well. Hm, John.

“I mean, I’m not gonna impose myself on you, I just want to sit in your chair, you can sleep.”

“That’s nonsense, John. Your shoulder will not tolerate a night of sleeping in a chair, and my waterbed is rather big. I can sit in the chair, if you insist on staying here.”

“Well, you have a point when you say it’s rather big…”

With that, both of them hesitantly made themselves comfortable in the waterbed. John took the chance of using the spray bottle once again, since Sherlock did actually have a spray bottle on his nightstand; it was after all good for his thinking to keep his gills moist. He couldn’t stop a grunt of appreciation as the spray hit him, and John sprayed until both the bed and his tuna friend were completely soaked.

“Flip over,” he said, and when Sherlock did as he was asked, John took care of his other side as well.

Sherlock was lost in sensations from the bed moving under him from John’s movements, the humidity, the water soaking him, and the proximity to John. Therefore, he didn’t realise at first that he was in fact talking.

“Moisturize me, John…” he heard himself moan. Terrified, he realised what he’d just said and dropped a fin over his mouth. Instantly, he hoped that the waterbed would save him from his humiliation by swallowing him whole. It didn’t, however, and John had stopped spraying him and was now staring at him with a very attractive, wide-open mouth.

“Oh, I will, Sherlock, I will,” John finally said. “But that’s enough for tonight, don’t you think? We both had a bit of a shock today, and I don’t want to rush things. I didn’t even think that you…”

Sherlock stared at John, feeling like a fish on dry land, totally out of his natural habitat. John meant that…? No, he couldn’t possibly…

“Yes, Sherlock, you idiot, I do,” John just said, settling down on the bed again, nudging Sherlock closer. They ended up scale to skin, and Sherlock felt John’s breath against his gills; the used, humid air felt almost as easy to breathe as water. And this felt like drowning, even if a tuna can hardly know how drowning feels.

“I’ve been worried about you, you know,” John said after a few minutes. “You’ve seemed so blue lately.”

“I’m always blue,” Sherlock protested with indignation.

“Oh, yes, I didn’t mean it like that, sorry, figure of speak. It’s just that it has felt like you’ve been all hooked up on something that’s been dragging you down…”

John stopped talking when he realised that the phrase he’d just used might not be the most appropriate one when you talked to a tuna.

“What I’m trying to say is that you’ve seemed depressed as of lately. Is there anything that bothers you?”

John’s hands were now stroking Sherlock’s scales, and Sherlock found that his tail fin had began to flap very eagerly against the bed without his consent. _Annoying._

“John. I’m a tuna.”

“Eh, yes. It would seem so,” John said, sounding confused.

“And you’re not.”

“Nope,” John agreed.

“But, I mean, I know that I…”

“I’ve already told you, you plankton. I do.”

Sherlock let his words sink in, along with the rather harsh insult, and once again got lost in the sensation of John’s hands against his scales.

“Ouch!” John suddenly exclaimed, dragging his hand away from Sherlock.

“Please, every idiot knows not to stroke a fish against the grain,” Sherlock said in his own defense.

“I was distracted, okay?” John muttered before resuming to pat Sherlock, until they both fell asleep, scale against skin.

And John didn’t get much quality sleep, since Sherlock tended to flop around quite a lot in his sleep, dreaming of waves and the ocean, but John couldn’t bring himself to sleep in his own bed after that night. His skin got rashes from brushing his skin against the grain of Sherlock’s scales during the nights, and he did have a mild tendency towards seasickness, so a waterbed was far from optimal, but still, he chose to stay beside the tuna of his life, night after night, keeping him moist with more than water, and making sure that Sherlock never hooked up with anyone but John. But most of all, John made sure that Sherlock never needed to feel cold and blue again.

_(Well; not cold, at least.)_


End file.
